


Long Since

by Forgotten_Logic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Alien Biology, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Fighting slaves, Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, NON-Sentient Robots (Automations/Androids), Night's Take On a Slave AU, Pre-War, Sentient Sky-Trans, Slave Trading, Slavery, Society has its priorities all wrong, Society is a dick, The heavy slag is coming soon, This is an OC backstory fic so hell, false information, meetings, vague mention how to initiate slave code
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:02:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_Logic/pseuds/Forgotten_Logic
Summary: Just an OC fic. I don't honestly know how to go about saying what it's about because it's all a shit shoot.She was a slave, bought again for the  sole purpose of being just that. To do things that hermasterwould never consider doing herself. But there was something different about this master, and it was in a much better way than ever before.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oops. I did it again. I tried to write something and it morphed into this.

For those amongst the richest of the Cybertronian elite, they only sought after those who could attend their wishes -- their orders, on a scarce command. If you were lucky, your master would give you a say in what had to be done, that in it of itself was a rare occurrence. Those poor, cheap forged mecha that were bought to be used, they were never so lucky. Luck was a four letter word that could never be trusted. Every slave knew that and in time, came to begrudgingly accept their fate.

Some, it takes too long. They are sent to the smelting pits, the better they work, the more their masters are paid. Backward, isn’t it? If they did not pull their weight and did all their work they would be _thrown_ into the smelter. Thrown away like an empty bottle of Engex. Society, if you were born into the wrong side of life, you’re damned. And that’s how it seemed. Too far gone to ever be feasible, but crazy things have happened before.

Just like that femme, unwillingly being dragged towards the Pit. Even three guards had trouble with her thrashing. But when you can see how your life is going to end -- how your light is going to be put out, there’s either the urge to flee or fight. She chose to fight. Even though it wasn’t taking her very far, the guards were bigger, heavier, sturdier, which left her hoping somehow she could manage to get them off balance, even just one. But even now, she was getting too close. The heat wafting up from hundred of feet, making her fate all the more certain. 

Until a mech, someone she didn’t know but not like that would’ve mattered anyway, yelled for them to cease. He waved them over, and she was now being dragged over away from the smoke. It seems someone else wasn’t so lucky today and met an awfully cruel fate. 

This mech was thickly built, bright green with yellow pulsing biolights. But even with his thick build, he was maybe half the size of even one of the guards that her in place. Somehow, leaving her unfazed. She was still most likely going to be terminated today by means of being burnt alive, nothing he could say would change that fact. He lifted a pad, one that was decorated with a slave manager’s sigil. He read from it, “Switchblade of Tyger Pax.” He looked back up at her, optics a dulled blue, slate blue. “It seems the Primes are taking pity on you,” he said lowly, looking at the guards, one by one. “Let her go. She comes with me.” And they did, though hesitantly, release her. Dents on her arms all the way up to her neck. He didn’t care for that, but of course, for him, she was cargo; just another lump of shanix, that’s all she was.

“Sir.” One of the three guards stayed close while the others left. “Allow me to escort you. She had been quite-” he looked at her, seeing the absolute anger in her optics.“-feisty.” The green mech glared at him but digressed. “Yes, good. Right this way,” with no hesitation in his voice, he lead the way. The guard, now behind her, forced her forward, the barrel of the gun that was on his holster between her wings. She limped but kept moving. One of the guards, one the two that had left already, kicked her knee in, all in hopes of deterring her thrashing. It hadn’t but it did slow her down.

Across the way, passing two other large smelters, heat and smoke clogged her vents, causing her to cough. All in a rough hope that maybe it’ll clear it away. It also hadn’t. So she vented through gritted denta, much to her dismay. But neither the green mech nor the guard cared. No one did for a slave. She was just another shanix to them and that was all that she would ever be. 

“Keep your wits about you. If you’re lucky, this will be your new owner.” She stared forward, refusing to respond. Knowing that her glossa would get into more trouble than what it was worth. Switchblade could feel the barrel ready, heated and ready to send a hole right through her center. “This is your last chance. I’m surprised she wanted a murderer.” _Lies, lies, lies! All lies. And you damn well know it you slagfaced, lube guzzling glitch._

She could feel the field of the guard behind her, almost frozen with disbelief. “But she’s so small,” he said it like she wasn’t there at all. Obviously it was common place for a slave to actually manage to kill their masters, usually they got either _very_ lucky and their master was already old and falling apart or; the slave was stopped and they’d be sent to the council, have someone test them, and, after all of that, be given the Empurata treatment with Shadowplay in the mix. So that potent mix, emotions and very the bases of personality would be gone so that they never attempt again; and so they are made an example of what happens to those who rebel against their masters. Rebellion got you killed. 

“Looks can be deceiving,” the bright green mech growled with a sneer, turning back enough to see unadulterated hatred burn in her optics. Soon enough, her fate would be sealed, Switchblade would be sent to the smelter and this whole ordeal will have been for nothing. There wasn’t much that would come of this, any of that would be good. 

Before he reached the door that, an android opened the door wide enough for the three. The area was what was really the central plaza, which still even with its clean floors drab walls, it still had the odd tang of smoke. The sounds of her pedes were overshadowed by that of the guard and the low growling engines to the sides along the walls. Switchblade let her helm hang down, there wasn’t a plan to look prideful or remorseful, although the latter may look it. She didn’t notice that she was still walking until the guard’s free servo grabbed her shoulder, stalling her. “Pay attention,” he growled like it was meant to intimidate her. _Frag off._

“Splitgear,” a fiery red femme greeted. _A Vosian seeker. Imagine the odds._ The bright green mech - Splitgear - nodded in kind. “Skyblaze, a wonder to see you.” He bowed before the seeker, whom only half bowed. It was customary for the seller for any thing do a full bow, showing full respect. That did not require the buyer to do so as well. A half bow was something that showed disinterest, sometimes even disdain for the seller. But even with that, it was always seen as a good technique for faking out the competition, especially for shanix. 

“And this is she?” Voice dull, like the smoke had already been able to tamper with his voice box. That fiery femme - Skyblaze - looked over passed Splitgear, and stepped forward, eyeing her possible new buy. She without hesitation, growled, “She’s all dented.” Her gaze, like her paint, bright and on point. “I was under the impression that she was in good health.”

“Oh but _it_ is, mistress. It has a strong will and would not go along with the guards,” Splitgear defended. _Call me an ‘it’ why, don’t you. Slag eater._ Skyblaze stopped her glare, though her optics still held their intense light. She turned back, again eyeing over the crevices that decorated the sturdy frame. From helm to ped, looked strong enough. She hummed disapprovingly at Switchblade’s leg, the knee looked to be broken and yet she was still standing. 

“That price, what was it again.” Splitgear looked down at the pad, the same one from earlier. “1,400 shanix,” he read off. _My, I am going cheap._ Skyblaze hummed. “See to it that she is repaired and upgraded. Heavy duty. High-performance graphics and firewall software. You do that, you’ve got a deal.” 

“I’ll see it done, mistress.”


	2. Chapter 2

Her armor was taken off, piece by piece. The unfortunate thing about frame upgrades was that you were conscious for the whole ordeal. Limb from limb until there was only her helm connected to her spark, to hang from the nearest wall and watch as the new frame was built. It was not particularly painful however often times were traumatic for the upgradee if spark separation occurred. 

“Can it hear us?” A younger attendant asked the mech who arranged Switchblade’s soon to be new frame. He didn’t respond, looking back to a screen on the opposite wall as she was. “O’course. It has audials still and major connections are present.” He pulled the attendant over with a simple gesture. He started instructing what each part was for and why is was necessary.

It was something that Switchblade did not bother to listen in on; she already had more than enough understanding to name every aspect of her frame. It came with what she did before coming back to Cybertron. Switchblade, since she wasn’t announced by her creators that she was ever born, her creators sent her off world to an outside territory planet cluster. Simply enough, they got rid of her as quickly as they could. It wasn’t frowned upon, even then.

Nova Prime was not one to worry about his people. He wished -- _wanted_ to broaden the scope of Cybertron and its territories. Aggressive and burdensome, but that never stopped him. There were those that believed him to be a false prophet -- a false Prime and Switchblade was one of them who believed that. He did not portray the ideals of Primus as they had been, his behavior betraying the very ideals of their creator. Even though she wasn’t so sure that _He_ created them at all. Never really was one for religion. What had he ever done for her? Hell, what had she done to deserve to be thrown into the slave trade? Nothing. It was luck. Rotten luck. Luck and hope got you nowhere.

“Get those pieces together. Make ‘em good and tight.” The lithe assistant did so, connecting each limb. Every motion was carefully monitored by the instructor. There were only a few points in time that he had to address something his assistant did. _Perhaps that -- seeker -- femme -- oh what was her name? Perhaps she was serious about the heavy duty upgrade. With this kind of attention to detail, the likelihood of going back to the Pits sounds absolute,_ she thought while unintentionally grunting. The assistant stopped his motion completely, staring at where the sound had come. Switchblade did not care that the look of bewilderment in his optics was dull to her. 

Instead of watching the lunatic or listen to his instructor explain on about nothing, she stared at the screen across the way. What it read made her realize one thing: she’d better get used to being a grounder. They were too heavy to fly, that could be figured easily but there was no point in doing the math. The math -- the weight of the finished frame would be twice and half as heavy as she was before. And all the weight seemed to be going straight to the armor, thicker everywhere it would look. It wasn’t undesirable, however, that did not make it a wanted change. 

Her engines were flight capable -- _were_ , and now with this realization, a grounder’s engine may not be such a bad thing. Flight frames, they require a lot of energy -- a lot of Energon to maintain their power to even begin to fly. All the while grounders, their engines do not require so much power, allowing for other systems to be used with that spare energy use. But with her being a former flier, the software for flight was still there. With only that there was a chance that those codes would take over and overpower the engines and cause failure. But that wasn’t the problem, not to say that there was one. It is just something very new.

Switchblade looked down again, the frame looked to be almost complete, save for her helm and spark. The instructor, bright optics -- rested, looked at her, painfully dull. He walked over with heavy ped steps and removed her from the wall, a servo under her helm and spark, which actually eased the pressure that she hadn’t notice build with hanging around and letting gravity hold her. There was almost a gentleness in how he held her, until she blacked out. Straight into forced stasis.

It wasn’t until the orn was almost out that she’d come to. Although now she was no longer in that facility, to wit did not make her any more certain of how she felt about it, everything felt odd. 

Feel of the frame, every addition weighed her down, slowed her. Her optics, she knew all too quickly that everything was bright in color, colors that had been dulled to prior fights and damage earned, they were so vibrant. The patterned floor, convexing with garnet and jade. A pretty and _expensive_ combination. 

 

She moved slowly, allowing her the time to adjust to the additions. The armor, as she thought, was thicker -- stronger than before. Five fingers, waxed armor on her arms and legs, it made her ridiculously smooth. It reminded her of the time on Colexy and their crystalline wax and how smooth and light her frame felt afterward, although the lightness was absent here. 

Switchblade, after sitting straight up, admired how each plate covered the other and how protected the protoform that was hidden ever so safely underneath. Wires, sensor net, all locked away and comfortable.

But that comfort vanished to a null bleat in the back of her mind. The door swung open, a small droid held the door as the femme -- the fiery femme -- strode in like she owned the place. Well, she most likely did own it. Once she was in, the droid stood in front of the now closed door - standing at attention. 

Switchblade went to stand, off the berth she slid with a clank. There she noticed her pedes were no longer solid and flat but now tripod, making her quite sturdy. She bowed her helm, common thing for a slave, acknowledgment. The ruby finials shifted up, sapphire blue optics traced Switchblade’s frame. “Step forward,” she commanded. Switchblade did so. Here she saw how much height she had gained with the upgrade as well, easily two helms taller than before but only a helm taller than her owner. Under the critical optics, she tried to not feel self-conscious but the blue burn felt harsh upon her very armor. 

“You look better,” the femme hummed. “Smell better.” She stepped behind her, Switchblade could swear that she could feel an absolute fire begin to prickle where those optics traced. “Filter. Did they change them?” Her red helm poked around, she walked slow and precise, watching her new purchase do nothing. “Speak.”

“They had, master,” she answered, continuing her gaze forward. “I am in the best condition since creation.” The femme nodded, scrapping thin digits across the waxy finish over a gleaming silver. Over the arm, shoulder – as she walked back around – those digits slid across a wing. Switchblade flinched, the wing pulling away even now from the gentle touch. But she moved without order and on her own will, that was very frowned upon. “Forgive me, master. They are… quite sensitive.”

“Don’t let it trouble you,” she spoke softly, almost as if she cared. _I am a slave. If not in mind but in body. I am an item._ “That will fade. Now.” She walked away, calm and a soft sway of her hips. “Come.” The droid opened the door for them, Switchblade fell into step with her master, as she stepped, Switchblade stepped with her. What lead was a hall, not terribly long but well decorated. Art: something that’s almost forgotten by some, how it’s made and the like. 

“Switchblade.” She turned her helm back just enough for a sidelong glance. “Is that really your designation?”

“Yes, master. It is.” Switchblade looked back too, there was a tink that was made that made her uneasy until she realized it was the droid behind them. Her master did not seem to mind. 

“Well, be that as it may, in your records is says you know how to fight.” She waited again for a response, but she did not command it like last time. “Yes,” Switchblade’s solemn reply. “I was trained in combat and weaponry on Colexy.”

“So not explicitly in the Pits, I see. In your records, it states nothing about you ever leaving the planet for training.” The droid rushed up ahead, grabbing the next door, cornered with gold. Her master continued with her hips sashaying into an exquisite lobby area. The floor so similar to the convexing flow as the room prior, it was almost hypnotic. 

“It was before I was issued a slave. It was during the early cycles of their civil war with Molute. Studied on Molute too.” She followed still, the large door came closed with a loud thump, locks reengaging. Her master rounded a corner. “This way,” she called. Switchblade hadn’t realized that she had stalled. Another room, this one simply decorated with what looked to be more like a meeting area: datapads, and a desk, a couch that appeared to be all too comfortable with a small table in front of it. 

“Sit. Tell me about it. What did you do on Molute. I was not aware that there was any training facility there.” Switchblade hesitated a moment before sitting on the opposite side of her master. “And do tell me, if you did actually go to Colexy and Molute, you would have been issued a different occupation, how is it that you are here and not in training facility -- training others?”

Switchblade crossed her legs and nodded, letting the questions come and settle in her helm. “Master, what I studied on Molute was to be a GPS. But I could not-”

“GPS?” the femme interrupted. “Gestational protocol specialist,” Switchblade explained quickly. “It was always something I wanted to be. I thought I could do good at it, and I was,” she sighed with a shrug. “What happened?”

“I was issued a slave. I worked in North Kaon. Tried to get a job in Iacon but that did not work at all.” She tilted her red helm, finials lifting and reflecting the light, showing the sparkle in the paint. “I didn’t graduate from either, meaning that I was not exempt from alt. Mode and that made my entire adventure in Kulkular completely illegal.” 

The entire code of conduct when it came to medical staff was the same. A code of care. Without any sign that Switchblade had graduated there was a chance that she had been lying (of course) and would not always abide by the code that served all medics. 

“Though, on Colexy, I was taught how to fight. My sensei focused on field strength and swordsmechship,” she continued, trying to keep her words from tying together so much that it slurred her speech. She did not want to look a fool, especially in front of her new master. The self-consciousness never leaves.

But something that Switchblade had never seen ever before from either of her two former masters was the curious gleam in their optics. “Why pray tell, couldn’t you have graduated?” it did not sound like she was growing irritated but rather the curiosity grew in her heightened voice. “Colexy and Molute, their civil war got in the way. I was shipped off before I could. I was so close! Master.” She blinked, optics bright and proud. 

“All right.” Flaming digits laced together. “What happened to your last master?” Switchblade tried to hide her flinch but failed. _Should’ve anticipated that sooner._ “I know in my records it says I killed him; I did not. He was always a heavy drinker and I did as asked. Every time he asked for some good engex I would retrieve it. That was my lot in life and I saw no point in fighting it. It was either do as asked or go back to the mines.” Her master nodded, never saying a thing. “It was assumed, master, that I killed him. I was merely in the next room, and never even heard his unit get opened.”

Switchblade sat there, ogling the smooth and changing features of the fire femme. She waited patiently for another question to burst forth. But none came, much to her growing curiosity. That curiosity turned anxiety when the silence carried over for longer than she’d ever want it to. With what little fuel in her tanks, she felt it churn and settle badly. 

“No malicious intent?” Switchblade found herself sighing in relief at the break in the silence. “No master. Never.” Her master nodded. Her field, soft and precise. Switchblade did want to incriminate herself any more than absolutely necessary. The worst thing that could happen is that she be sent right on back to the smelting pits and be melted down. But more likely than not – if she set badly with her master – she’d be set to get formatted. Again. 

“I see.” Her field spoke louder than she did, poking with curiosity. She got up all of a sudden, turned only her helm to her buy. “Come.” Switchblade did not hesitate, uncrossing her legs and placing them firmly on the convexing patterned ground. The droid came right behind Switchblade as she walked.

Switchblade watched her master walk, smooth motion, hips in a gentle sway. Her wings flickering. Her frame was most definitely an exempt model. She probably didn’t have a specific obligation for her frame, now that Switchblade thought about it. She was Vosian and had exquisite taste in paint and interior design. It would not surprise her if she was part of the Vosian royal family. She certainly did live in luxury. 

The droid pushed forward, again passed Switchblade’s master, its wheel squeaked with exertion. Her master waited as the door slid open, and turned her chassis half way. Her ruby finials perked up. And – a surprise to Switchblade – there was a slight smile on her master’s derma. “This is where you will be staying.”

The room, as she walked in, was simply decorated, not like the room that she was in before. When she woke up. The floors to the walls were a solid color. A dull red that looked pinker than anything, the wall was dark gradient which came down from the roof. There was a berth that was laid under a window, it wasn’t new but it wasn’t worn and riddled with holes like the last one she was given to recharge on. Switchblade turned around and bowed. “Thank you, master.” She stayed in her bow. “Will I be sharing with another?”

“Only the droid. It doesn’t take up any room.” She vaguely gestured to what looked to be a charging station. Switchblade nodded slowly, rising from her bow. 

“Now, come along. I have a meeting. And can’t be late.” Switchblade followed her master back to the foyer with long strides. She did not reply, she had spoken enough this orn. Far more than she should’ve. 

The droid bounced quickly ahead and grabbed the door for them again, a lift waited for them. A large ground frame, hefty and able to carry something very, very heavy. Switchblade followed her master without words, up and into the ship. Whatever comes next, she’d take and bare it. Her master was far nicer than the last.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> la la la~ I'm not dead yet~! Yeah, well. Ive been trying with this thing for a couple months now. I got stuck so hard yall lol hope you enjoy!

Switchblade waited until her master had settled into her seat before joining her within the carrier, however not sitting. It was unnecessary to do so. Inside the carrier was large and empty. The seats were intricate in their design, silver and black and gold. Did her master also own this lift as well? It would not be of surprise to the slave, certainly, it matched her master’s style. It’s door rattled as it closed. Hydraulics hissed as the lift rose. The engines in the front and back roared, falling back to a thrumming. 

Her master cleared her intake, something that Switchblade thought was because of the slight change in air pressure; Switchblade was still used to being a flyer and having to slightly adjust the pressure in her chassis, so she did not think anything about it. Until the fiery femme did it again. Her optics came up the sleek red frame, unfortunately, she’d been staring, much to her quiet disdain. Crisp blue optics bore down into the new hardened silver frame, the turbines on her master’s back whined. “Take a seat. You may stand later,” her master ordered. 

Although Switchblade’s field buzzed with hesitation, she did as told, stepping over to the closest seat to her. The slight flare of heat bristled in Switchblade’s systems, not embarrassment, not in shame, but only discomfort. Masters were cruel—or at least hers had been—why would this one be otherwise? Slaves were not to be seen as equal, this—being seated in the same machine, being expected to adhere to semi-strict safety regulations—safety was not something that was for the unprivileged. After being with two masters before this, the fact was ingrained. Coding deep. A slave could not change coding.

A hatch opened at the opposite end of the open space, static fizzling through the thrum of the engine. “En route to your appointment. Comfortable I hope?” Switchblade forced her head to stay forward, field as empty of undue emotion as possible. Out of the corner of her optics saw the flier squirm minutely. “Perhaps, turn down the heat. It seems to be a bit warm.”

Switchblade’s fans sputtered against her better judgment before she could stop them, which expelled even more heat. It seemed to be so much louder than it was but one thing’s for certain, Switchblade felt the burn of those crisp optics against her chassis. Thankfully, also the ventilation started to make it’s way through, powering on in a slow but steady fashion. After a moment, the voice asked: “this pleases you?”

The optics left the slate frame. “Hmm, yes.” Switchblade watched as discreetly as physically possible, how dark crimson servos opened a subtle compartment, how it slid out. _Pads?_ Multiple pads lined up neatly. _OCD or only organized?_

“Skyspan,” the flaming flier started, almost patiently waiting for the carrier to respond. “Yes, mistress?”

“Go to the 43rd floor. The floor’s been prepared.”

“What of the cargo? Your slave?” The sky-tran asked; Switchblade slightly turned her head toward the red flier. “She will be with me.”

“As it would please you, mistress.” 

The thrumming died and the carrier bounced slightly as it’s hydraulics engaged. Switchblade got up quickly and stepped over to the far side of the exit, out of the way to open the door. Her master sat there a moment, flicking momentarily through the pads that were already out; a few had been put back and others she held under her arm. Switchblade wondered how long she would decide on which to bring, but wondered less when the compartment was closed again, seamless with the wall.

When the garnet frame came to her, the pads that were under her arm were placed on her servos. Her master gave no explanation and continued walking, brisk and with a swivel to her slender hips. _Shut up, Switch… not the time to fantasize,_ she could not help but chide herself. Seeing something aesthetically pleasing on a master is one thing, however, it another when leads to other thoughts. She already had a problem with that and should really be trying to avoid it, but it’s like an addiction. It’s not always good in the end but it is all well and fun while everything is happening. 

“Step up. Don’t lag.” Switchblade heard the admonishment and indeed came up just behind her, stepping into her master’s pace. Unlike before—before the upgrades, she may have ease keeping the same pace. Now she had to adjust, due to her legs being longer than before, making her stride more efficient. It was longer than that of her master, leading to the fact that needed to slow down and speed up accordingly. 

Switchblade watched with wary optics, how the doors parted and the plaza before her expanded into an extravagant hall, decorated with other illustrious mecha; many images were newly holomized and it left her discomforted. “Now,” her master started abruptly. “When we are in there, I expect silence. There will be others there and likewise, will wish it so.” Switchblade kept her optics and field clear, giving no indication to an untrained field that she terrified. “Do not speak unless spoken to. It's a good habit.” Sharp ruby finials twitched up harshly, quick and sure, her frame halted her motion; thankfully Switchblade was paying attention–

–however, not paying attention well enough. “Skyblaze,” greeted a black and white mech, sneering at Switchblade as he walked up the femme. “Glad you've finally left that palace of yours. It's not welcoming.”

“And nor is it meant to be,” her master sassed, “guests do tend to be uncordial once they learn who bought the drinks.” She started to walk again, albeit a tad bit slower than before. “What has brought you to me, Prowl? Tumbler not enough?” Something harsh flexed through the Praxian field. _Praxian? Definitely, with that kibble and those doors. The chevron… most definitely with the enforcers, perhaps a higher agent_ , Switchblade thought, trying to find minute details without being highly offensive. 

“My _partner_ and I have been doing separate things as of late. I've only come to be on guard for you, hearing of your proposal.” Switchblade allowed her vents to push the heated air away from her, the differing touch of the Praxians’ field made something distinct change in her own. “But, as it would seem, you already have a guard.” Leaned in closer to Skyblaze as they walked. “A risky investment.”

“She may be as much an investment as anything else, but I have faith.”

“In a slave? Rubbish,” he smirked, only slightly to the heightened tone of voice. “Rubbish that you think I didn't look it up.” _One more to the list of mecha I want to punch: mark down this Praxian_.

“I am well aware that you most probably did. You're smart and compulsively nosy, not a good combo, I'm afraid.” Her master had veered off to the left, away from the Praxian. “Now, good orn.”

Switchblade watched through peripheral how the Praxian stopped walking a moment, but ultimately turned the opposite way; down the hall that, if she could read it correctly, was for Systems’ Management and Storage. _Perhaps he’s not so high as an agent, does that mean Orion is higher ranked?_

“Switchblade—” Switchblade’s attention recaptured ”—give me the top pad.” She balanced the stack of half a dozen on one servo as she took out the specific one, with ease, showing her master the cover as it was held for her. “Software analytics. Yes, perfect.” Sharp magenta digits flipped a moment through the pages. “Thank you.” 

Switchblade did not respond, curtly nodding, as she stepped forward to open the door to what she had only assumed was a conference room. Her master walked with a slightly longer stride, faster, sturdy. There were rows upon rows of seats, most filled, that never deterred the flame to stop her confident stride; still with a pad in servo, she weaved around mecha that had huddled in the only feasible pathway to the front stand. The room rumbled with different voices, engines purring, and field flaring in mild disdain for others. That was one thing that had come in handy, even still, since being shipped off of Colexy: field reading apparently was not so common, not as Switchblade had recalled. 

The subtle tone shift in the floor made her mind stop wondering for a brief nano-second. The swivel of silver and red hips, however, allured her sight, going to the middle of the all the seats; all facing her master in attention. Switchblade, although unfamiliar with the present situation, knew that staying close enough to retrieve the pads for her master would be appropriate. If she had done even the slightest thing wrong, she was painfully sure that she would end up back where she was before: the smelter. 

The slight rise that gave way when her master was on the pedestal, something clicked in Switchblade’s helm, something that made it feel like something was touching the back of her neck. “Femmes and mechs, mecha alike, I am Skyblaze of Vos, of the intelligence sector. I have been asked to help establish the groundings for a medical suspension between the states of Iacon, Vos, and Kolkular,” her tone changed, something akinned to triumph, like all that she had said already had won. 

“From the statistical analysis of the software that has been implanted into cold constructs; gladiators; slaves, it does not sustain its function.” _What software?_ Switchblade should have thought about that before. “It leaves those under its constraints weaker, slower, dimwitted, and ultimately, they become useless after it takes full course. They will not follow orders or follow basic reason. They have only two things in their mind: escape and survival.” The stoic expression the Switchblade had held faltered. 

“The purpose of said suspension would be to end the use of this generation of slave code, as it could cause other societal things to flare up.” A mecha in the audience raised their servo, straight and primed. “Please hold all questions until the end,” her master said without a glance to their general direction. It was enough for the mecha and they settled in their seat. 

“This is, of course, the first generation of slave coding. As many of you know, it is barbaric how the coding must be initiated, and from that, may yield: creation, spark infarction, and viral contraction. On all accounts, can be dangerous if handled improperly, deadly even.” She paused, bringing the pad in hold higher. “Just as recent as our last vorn, 68% of those who initiated the code themselves were injured due to spark infarction. 22% had kindled while the other 10% had gotten a viral infection. There were no cases Energon based viruses, however, there had been cases of Ærugo.

“For the treatments that have been put into place for temporary relief is meant for Vis Palleo Cado, and does little to nothing stop the spreading of false code. All it does is cause those under the code and the initiators to come down with a condition that closely resembles VPC, however, is all the more draining to the system without killing them.

“So I ask, in representation of the Vosian Royal Medical and Intelligence station to heed these facts and consider the suspension of slave coding until another alternative is available,” she paused, optics unblinking, she signaled with a swift flick of her digit forward to Switchblade to approach. Switchblade did more hesitantly than she should have in such a public setting. Her master only tilted her helm toward her before she spoke again, “give those to the mecha in the front row.” 

Switchblade stepped around the podium as it stayed at its height, now even more conscious of her new frame, especially in front of these prestigious and quite possibly pompous, mecha. Her master’s voice grew authoritative, but not coldly, merely directing, “the pads that are being passed about hold more statistics if you are unsatisfied. Cited and credible. Also, there are options included that could be implemented that could take over temporarily for this generation’s coding.” Switchblade walked passed two mecha, one obscenely bright (or perhaps it was just in her optics) and the other seemed to have a pale green and white; not a bad looking combo, but something about him reminded her of someone else. “One such option is the ‘splice method’ in which the owner’s spark has a bit of slave’s in their own. Not enough to bond but potentially enough to forge a sort of trust bond, if you will. Of the cases conducted with 465 mecha in southern Vos and northern Kolkular, 85.4% saw success from the splice. 397 of 465. That is one of the best options we presently possess, with the limited time that this has been able to be studied, I’d wish that there was more data to derive from.”

Switchblade walked back quickly, practically scurrying away (if someone with a frame such as hers could really call it that). She abruptly stopped just passed the podium and turned on a heel, facing the crowd once again, eyeing the few that had a pad in their hold. Their optics drawn tight in either concentration or irritation, Switchblade was not sure. 

It was quiet a moment, eerily quiet. Switchblade did her best to keep her frame from expelling so much heat into the surrounding area, but it was difficult keeping her fans from rattling in her chassis. It didn't help that she was starting to feel the pressure in her chassis from containing it as best she could. “Now, you may ask questions. I know that you—Senator, had raised your servo but a klick ago. Do by chance still recall what you wanted to ask?”

“What did you mean by other societal things could flare up?”

“Revolt. Anyone who is held in contempt long enough will want to change it. These are slaves, gladiators, miners! They all have more strength than many of us combined. We cannot fight them, nor can we change their minds; we can, however, give them a sort of freedom for their mundane life.”

Another mech, far in the back waved about a servo. “You have taken a lot of thought into this matter, haven't you, Skyblaze of Vos.”

“I do tend to look deeply into the topics I present on,” she said quickly and all too quietly for—even Switchblade with fresh audials barely picked up on the vibration of her master's voice. The mecha in the back got up further and began to walk down through the filled seats. 

“Are you afraid of revolt?” He asked, going through beads of light from the ceiling. “Now, I understand you could fear it but—”

“—I do not fear it, I anticipate it,” Skyblaze, now speaking loud enough for the mecha in the audience to hear, interrupts this other Senator. 

Strangely enough, he seemed to not take offense. Switchblade was sure that even a femme as such as her master would be penalized for speaking out of line, but her master was not a slave, Switchblade was. Laws and regulations and culture were far kinder to those who could afford it. The mech had stopped at Skyblaze’s interruption but regained his composure as he walked farther. “But why should we worry? If what you say is true—that those under the code become useless to us—why should we even worry?”

“You fail to understand. They will become useless for us _to control_ them. They will regain their processing power enough to push through that coding, the drive to want to fight any resistance that presents itself.” The pad that once was right in front of the fiery femme was now only held between two digits at her side. “They will rise up, like a cornered animal, and they will strike.”

“You say this and yet, you have brought along a slave of your own. One that already has a history of murder,” the mech from the crowd stepped down to the floor. Switchblade’s field bristled, optics darting to the mech that had accused her of a not-so-new crime. “That would ultimately come to the conclusion that perhaps you want to make it seem like you could, so to say, rehabilitate an uncontrolled _creature_.”

Switchblade willed her fans to stay at the lowest setting possible, keeping her optics as cold and emotionless as would allow. But under such scrutiny—amongst so many more mecha that had begun to chatter—it left her somewhere between outraged and irritatingly embarrassed. She was not one to go down without a fight, however, this was not the time. And there would likely never be a time for such rash behavior from her against a Senator, that thought alone made her field bristle, and flare. 

Her master certainly felt the silenced hostility and stared at the accusing mecha. “I understand how that may make my claims seem biased,” she began solidly, her voice a calm alto, unwavering. “However, it is best to note that I had procured _her_ until just the orn prior. All data that was used for this survey amongst cold constructs was done, as I stated earlier, the last vorn.

“I take my work very seriously. This meeting was not about me or how I run my life. This meeting—Senator—was the purpose to enlighten all of you on the dangers that have arisen from the use of this first generation’s code. She is but a slave, but also a mecha like us too.” A hush came over the audience, even the Senator that had stepped forward. He stayed there a moment. 

Switchblade started to think, if her master got in trouble for _defending_ her, of all things, what would become of herself? Slaves that were accused of murder hardly ever made it out alive. She could already imagine the heat, armor melting heat, vent clogging soot of a smelter. _The Pits would be so much faster,_ she ultimately groused, knowing that one of these orns, she’d make it back there again.

The Senator stood still but something in his field changed, lifted. He stepped forward toward the pedestal that her master had adorned herself with. By then, the fiery femme and the red and blue Senator were at optic level. The air around them charged with an unfamiliar energy, but not an energy that could be left unnamed. It was something akinned to humility, but there was also pride. Thin blue optics peered through the dimmed light then to Switchblade and then back to her master.

“Skyblaze of Vos, of the intelligence sector, and in representation of the Vosian Royal Medical and Intelligence station,” he looked her in those cyan optics as he stated her title. “I believe you have done your station proud. The Senate agrees in favor of suspension of slave coding,” he proclaimed as he turned to face the crowd, thrusting an open palm to ceiling. 

“And for this, I personally expect by next vorn that your station has more potential options to work with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AYYY lol hi
> 
> hope everyone is doing alright.
> 
> if anyone wants to give me ideas, I legit need them <3 x3

**Author's Note:**

> You made it this far. lol Thanks. Everything in here will be complete junk because I'm BSing the lore hard. So hard bruh


End file.
